The train would bring him from Groningen to Amsterdam where he would meet his friends from the Dutch Caribean island, Curacao. Crash they would, at their friend’s place Vincent, who squatted a great floor in an old building on Spui straat, just a few doors away from later famous squatter building Vrankrijk.

Amsterdam was gay Walhalla, in Groningen where he studied for his bachelor International Marketing, you had two gay establishments, the Duke and the MacDonald. That is where he had met his Dutch Antilles friends, he had been shy and naïve and was not used to the attention they gave him.

Blind walls, a blind door with a peephole so the doorman could see who wanted to enter, it was dark, secretive and a hidden new world for him. He would lean against a wall and observe the men that would dance. Sometimes he dared to dance himself, aware of the looks he got but not speaking the language yet of this new country he was entering.

Amsterdam had the reputation of being anarchistic and republican (in Dutch terms that would mean anti monarchy, not right wing for our American readers.)

Students, homosexuals, lesbians and immigrants would live in the old houses where nobody wanted to live anymore, as middleclass Amsterdam had moved away to newly build area’s in places such as Almere and Purmerend. Bourgeois suburbia.

But gay life thrived, there was an undercurrent of creativity and explosion of gay bars and clubs that attracted a variety of men from all over the world.

The April had opened in 1984 and it was 1987 when his friends took him to Reguliersdwarsstraat, just a short walk from Spui where he had crashed on a matrass on the floor.

A gorgeous young man was bar-tendering and leaned over to take orders. Dark hair, dark eyes that would pierce him. As if he knew that it was his first time in Amsterdam, he felt devoured, a heat filled his body and blood filled his groin.

The April was a new phenomenon, he did not know where to look. From the man that were standing and drinking beer, while picking tin foil chocolate eggs that had been glued to the walls from floor to ceiling. The bodies that would push him and hold him while they pushed themselves to the bar ordering more drinks. The loud music from the speakers, looking out of the large windows he realized the difference. A gay bar with large windows filled with an abundance of homosexual man who would flirt with each other and were full of life. There had not been blind walls, doors or peephole. Just the muscled doorman remained who would smile friendly at you knowing that you were gay and welcoming you for it.

Looking out of the windows he saw the Reguliersdwarsstraat being blocked by these man, unapologetically being present they only slowly parted when a bycicle or car wanted to pass. This was their domain and they were not ashamed about it.

It was almost biblical, if you wanted to pass, this red sea of homosexual men would look you up and being proud gay, tolerate the passer through. They were not afraid for Pharaoh.

His skin was mocca and his mouth tasted sweet as of candy. He felt this man’s hand on his body while his blood filled organ was in his mouth. Was this how it was to love another man?